


Brave, Brave New World

by wherethequeerheroesat



Series: Original Sins [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Gwen (Comics), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Michelle Jones, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Natasha Romanov Deserves More, Nightmares, Out of Character, Panic Attacks, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Secret Identity, Sokovia Accords, Time Travel Fix-It, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, and you know it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-06-25 09:49:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherethequeerheroesat/pseuds/wherethequeerheroesat
Summary: He takes in her suit – black, a unitard, incredibly well-sewn leather boots, no mask. She sees the questions rise in his eyes.“Who’s backing you?”She shakes her head. “No one.” His eyes narrow. Then, with a sharp inhale, she says – “I was bitten by a radioactive spider at the Oscorp conference last spring.”A tense silence between them. Peter looks stunned beyond belief. His eyes start to redden. She knows she can’t even begin to understand the pain he’s been through, swinging around Queens alone, losing his secret identity, Avenging.A leap of faith. That’s all it is, isn’t it?“I’m Gwen Stacy. I’m just a student at ESU. I’m not trying to be Spider-anything, but I know Ross is after you, Peter Parker. And I need to thank you for saving the world from Thanos.”--In which Gwen Stacy joins the MCU, helps our lonely boy Peter post-FFH, and gets herself in deep shit with Secretary Ross.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning:  
> Endgame Spoilers  
> FFH Spoilers
> 
> Disclaimers:  
> a) My first post on AO3 after creeping around for a hot second  
> b) Employing *extreme* creative license here  
> c) Tbh haven't touched fiction in a while  
> d) Basically unedited
> 
> Enjoy!

She is in the middle of drawing a mind map for her molecular biology test when she senses Peter Parker’s presence.

_“-way home. Sorry I forgot. I’m fine, almost there.”_

She rises abruptly. Looks at the clock. 1:14am. She’s in her small studio apartment, blackout curtains drawn, window closed, can lights on overhead. She hasn’t tested out her new suit yet. Her first suit. But Parker’s nearby and when she strains, she can hear the tell-tale sound of heavy SUVs roaming the streets. Five of them. Almost leisurely. She closes her eyes. His steps are light, he’s setting a brisk pace. When he walks, soft denim brushes denim. He isn’t wearing his suit. Fifteen blocks north. What’s he doing in Manhattan without his suit?

Her decision is swift. Impulsive. She pulls the curtains back and opens the window, yawns and stretches, rubs her eyes tiredly. Pulls out her phone and turns the overhead lights off. 

She grabs the suit out of the hidden drawer beneath her desk and retreats to the corner to change. Out of sight of the nearby cameras she ID-ed when she first moved in a month ago. Armed with her newly minted discs – _shit_ , it’s a test run for them too. She blinks, feels a familiar tremor run across her skin, then looks down at her hands and sees nothing. Perfect. She’s got cloaking down to a T. Small miracles.

Quick taps on her phone and she’s switched her bedside lamp on. The bed’s purposely sandwiched in the furthest corner. Best sightlines, totally obscured even when looking straight into her window from the rooftops of every nearby building. Anyone watching would best assume she’s doing some late reading.

She treads lightly to the window and crawls out of it, sticking to the brick. It’s cold, even for the fall. TV says it’s been one of the coldest years this century. She looks down and her head rushes with vertigo despite it being a) only five stories up, and b) her umpteenth time doing this. Heart thumps hard. Ears ring. _Fuck._ When did she think she would be ready for this? Does anyone ever change their life feeling absolutely sure? Because she’s 100% terrified.

But she peels her hands off the wall all the same and crawls to the rooftop. Without pausing for breath, she takes a running leap and is soon darting through all the shadows across campus, keeping her senses open to a Parker she knows is in danger.

Keeping count in her head. Parker’s alone. He’s walking in circles trying to lose the SUVs. So he hears them, unable to shake the tail without his suit. Five cars approaching in a spiderweb formation. No leaping above ground without giving them evidence. He’s still got a half-mile radius, that’s more than enough leeway for her to help. Underground it is, then. She can do it. Her body’s mapped out this area dozens of times. She knows every physical defense, every camera placement, every manhole cover. Can draw the visual coverage of this neighborhood in her sleep. She can do this.

When she’s two blocks away, she slides down the fire escape and crouches in the top stairway. With a whisper detectable only by ears like theirs, she whispers, _“Peter Parker.”_

She feels him tense for a split second. Grins. Attention procured.

_“Follow me.”_

This is the moment. Is she ready?

She leaps off the landing, throwing her arms out at the last second. Her webbed wings open soundlessly and she’s off, gliding through the air. A true ghost. 

Her mind sparks with excitement but too soon, she’s grounding herself in an alleyway across from Parker. She quietly pulls open a set of wooden cellar doors that lead into BluGraz Café. Stares at his figure intently. Then descends the stairs, allowing the softest of whispers as her boots meet concrete.

He hesitates only slightly before following. Same pace. Hands in his jeans pockets, one earbud in, no music, no call. 

She leads him through the backstage area of the Café, numbness chilling her bones. This is all home and with one fell swoop she’s leaving it. She’s leaving this life behind. 

Out through the narrow passageway and, just as quickly, back into the non-functioning subway tunnel she wouldn’t have discovered had Harry not gotten so drunk that one time. Dumb luck. 

She’s careful to leave an audible trace at every turn for him to follow until they’re just a block away from her apartment. Subway tunnel to a dirty bus stop, alleyway to the backdoor of a looted department store that stayed looted after the Blip. 

Finally, they’re at the building next to hers by the garbage chutes she knows best. Her ears prick one last time for the SUVs. She’d taken a roundabout route that cut diagonally across the street patterns so often, underground, that they’d been forced to widen their radius to two miles. Too far away. She smirks and considers it their tactical retreat.

Hands and legs up the side of her building until she’s squatting roughly on the fifth floor. She stares down at Parker as he glances up, then quickly reveals herself. The shock on his face is staggering. Then she’s throwing one of her discs down, hoping like hell he doesn’t bat it away, mentally projecting _trust me, trust me, trust me…_

It lands on the sleeve of his hoodie and immediately she re-cloaks herself, extending the mechanism to the disc. It works. Small fucking miracles.

She waits as he looks down at himself and sees nothing. Just street and dirt. He climbs up the wall and she lets him touch her ankle. Then they crawl over to her open window. 

_“Wait.”_

She climbs in, pulls on long-sleeve pajamas, and uncloaks herself, making sure to keep her tether to Parker’s disc. A stretch, another yawn like she’s getting up from bed. She carries a worn copy of _Great Expectations_ to her desk and pushes her open window higher. Peter Parker crawls in, brushing his back against hers once fully inside, and she slides the window shut. Checks the soundproofing. Rubs her eyes once more, uses her phone to switch the bedside lamp off, and pulls the curtains closed.

Spidey sense. 

She swings around, electrically recalling her disc from Parker’s bicep, and catches his fist before it’s even curling to reach her head. It lacks force. Just testing the waters, then.

She nods at the bed. “Sit.”

He does. She pulls up her desk chair, turns it around, and straddles it. Lets out a soft sigh. Head resting on her elbows to show she’s no threat. Besides, it had been a stressful half hour.

When she looks back up, he’s taking stock of the room. Bare furniture. Tiny closet. A drum kit. Soundproofing pads on steroids. Punk posters on the walls and her one childish indulgence, glow-in-the-dark stars, smattered on the ceiling. He takes in her suit – black, a unitard, incredibly well-sewn leather boots, no mask. She sees the questions rise in his eyes.

“Who’s backing you?”

She shakes her head. “No one.” His eyes narrow. Then, with a sharp inhale, she says – “I was bitten by a radioactive spider at the Oscorp conference last spring.”

A tense silence between them. Peter looks stunned beyond belief. His eyes start to redden. She knows she can’t even begin to understand the pain he’s been through, swinging around Queens alone, losing his secret identity, Avenging.

_A leap of faith. That’s all it is, isn’t it?_

“I’m Gwen Stacy. I’m just a student at ESU. I’m not trying to be Spider-anything, but I know Ross is after you, Peter Parker. And I need to thank you for saving the world from Thanos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo just needed to get this out there because there aren't nearly enough female supers plus watching FFH has left a sizable hole in my chest and who knows when the next goddamn movie is coming out anyway. Rough outlines are afoot but this is fun so we shall see where this takes us
> 
> Many, many thanks to two authors in particular -  
> idrillka and their amazing fic "tin soldiers", without whom I would never have gotten into fanfic to begin with  
> and InfluentialPineapple and their fic "How to Repair a Broken Heart" (that I'm desperately waiting on), without whom I could not have realized the possibilities of fanfic


	2. Chapter 2

> _“Just a month after local vigilante Spider-Man saves the cities of Prague and London, the unknown caped hero dubbed Mysterio has revealed Spider-Man’s identity. Moments before his death, Mysterio, who previously helped Spider-Man take down what witnesses in Prague have described as a giant fiery monster, accused Spider-Man of orchestrating this recent string of terrorist attacks.”_
> 
> _A school photo of Peter Parker appears on screen._
> 
> _“Sources confirm that 16-year-old Peter Parker, a high school student in Queens, was spotted in cities across Europe where drone attacks projecting holographic images of Earth’s supposed new villains the Elementals took place. We here at The Post have cross-examined Spider-Man’s appearances both throughout Queens and in Washington, D.C. with public records of Peter Parker’s locations, and have confirmed a close match.”_
> 
> _The reporter is shown interviewing a student from Midtown High School, who wears a bright yellow blazer._
> 
> _“Spider-Man saved us at the Monument even though I later saw helicopters try to chase him down,” she explains, hands waving about excitedly. Then, she spares the camera a nervous glance and her voice dips._
> 
> _“If it was Peter out there,” she pauses. “We owe him our lives twice now. Nobody who went to Europe got hurt. I know it’s Peter who kept us safe.”_
> 
> _“It’s been six months since the Blip and we have yet to hear from any of the other Avengers who helped protect Earth. In the wake of such catastrophic damage, how does the United Nations decide on the parameters of the Avengers Initiative?”_
> 
> _Microphones are shoved in the face of Secretary Ross, who convened a press conference the day after Spider-Man was unmasked._
> 
> _“We are currently in talks with every nation who backed the Sokovia Accords, but let me make one thing clear.” His eyes drill holes in the cameraman’s lens._
> 
> _“In the grand history of this nation, the United States has not and will never endorse vigilantism. It is a danger to us all that the state of our national security is predicated on a group of enhanced super-humans who act on their own sovereignty and not in the interests of the United States. In light of these allegations, we will be doubling down on investigations of vigilantism, including that of Mr. Parker’s, and especially on counts of terrorism. Rest assured; we do not quip about our people’s safety lightly.”_
> 
> _The next shot is outside Stark Tower. Reporters chase a heavily-flanked Pepper Potts out the building. When the camera comes to rest on her face, it finds her expression stony and a little weary._
> 
> _“Ms. Potts, what do you have to say about Peter Parker’s prior involvement with Tony Stark?”_  
>  _“Did Iron Man know who Spider-Man was? What do you think gave him the right to endorse Spider-Man’s actions?”_  
>  _“Pepper, over here! Is Peter still employed with Stark Industries-”_  
>  _“-when is Stark Industries going to own up about its involvement with Spider-Man’s blatant disregard of the Accords?”_
> 
> _When Pepper Potts turns around, the skin around her eyes tightens._
> 
> _“Spider-Man fought alongside my fiancée in the battle against Thanos, as did I.” Her voice is deceptively calm. “We at Stark Industries have confirmed in our analysis of the video that the entity known as Mysterio 100% matches a former high-level employee named Quentin Beck and have passed on this information to the relevant authorities.”_
> 
> _Her voice cuts through the rising barrage of questions._
> 
> _“Mr. Parker is one of our brightest interns and until he is formally proven to be Spider-Man, our company will not stake employment decisions on the words of somebody who, to quote Mr. Stark, resigned in disgrace. As for Spider-Man, while Stark Industries has no relations with him, having personally seen the hits he will take to protect his people, I have no doubts that he is the furthest thing from a terrorist.”_
> 
> _The Post reporter shoves a microphone in Pepper’s face. Her flinch and recovery are remarkably quick._
> 
> _“Ms. Potts, but what does that say about whether Spider-Man’s a hero?”_
> 
> _Pepper allows a small smirk before she slides in the car._
> 
> _“I think we both know that’s not a question for him to answer, but for yourself.”_

It’s only been two days since this news report hit YouTube.

“Why are you in Manhattan?” Gwen asks Peter.

He looks at his hands.

“Ms. Potts says I need to stop being Spider-Man, at least for a little while.”

Gwen’s eyebrows raise. Spider-Man’s history only shows that he’d rather die than stop trying.

“Can you do that?”

Peter scoffs, then narrows his eyes at her. “How did you know Ross sent those cars?”

It’s the most twisted game of 20 Questions she’s ever played.

She shrugs. “I could sense it, just like you.”

“How can you turn invisible?”

“What is your plan, Parker?” She asks louder. Chin up, eyes defiant. Stick to the rules of the game.

Peter sighs softly. His hand runs through his curls. Nervous tic.

“Honestly, I don’t know. Ms. Potts said she could speak to the Wakandan delegation on my behalf, but-”

“That’s your best option.”

“ _But_ ,” Peter emphasizes, frustrated. “One, if I vanish, that’s not going to look good for current or future investigations of me. Peter Parker, me.”

Gwen nods.

“And two, I can’t leave this city behind.”

An audible groan. Parker thinks he’s frustrated? He clearly doesn’t know any better. She throws her hands up.

“Why not?”

Peter scrambles, his eyes darting wall to wall. “Because-because what’s a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man with no neighborhood?”

Gwen stares at him. Notes his desperation. Doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s already saved the world. The universe.

She knows he isn’t stupid, just as she knows she was never born to be anything like him. All the self-sacrificing heroics. She was not made for these kinds of decisions. But one commonality must be the self-preservation. Without it, he couldn’t still be here. He wants to protect. In order to do that, he must want to live. So what’s in the way?

“Who are you keeping an eye on?”

He freezes at her question. She kicks the edge of her bed lightly.

“No trust, no team,” she lilts.

The room is quiet. Too late for cars outside. A raccoon rifling through the garbage. Everybody on her floor appears to be asleep.

“Why are you doing this?”

Parker’s voice is earnest, as are his eyes. Once again, Gwen’s heart jolts at the thought of putting herself in his shoes. The Avengers aren’t around anymore, regardless of how much Ross likes to opine about them being a menace to society. When Beck showed up, Peter had no one. He must have people he cares about or he wouldn’t be hesitating. Wakanda can’t be taking everyone. To be forced to answer questions about the future safety of their world, to account for that many lives, and on top of it all to have his anonymity wrenched away, the anonymity of those he cares about… This kid is only sixteen.

“I think that Ross is coming after you,” she begins slowly, carefully. “The only path that makes sense for him now is to make an example of someone so visible.”

Peter nods, gears turning.

“And after what Ross went through to try and apprehend Dr. Banner-”

“We studied that in social studies the other day!” Peter perks up. “There isn’t much that wasn’t redacted, but it seemed really morally ambiguous.”

Gwen shakes her head.

“Not at all. Anyone who _reads_ knows Ross is shady as fuck.” 

Peter grins. Then, just as quickly, deflates.

“What about that Jameson guy-”

“That guy’s on crack,” she interrupts him fiercely. “There are just as many people supporting you as there are him. An unsubstantiated opinion should not be the one you worry about.”

Parker’s fingers twitch absently. Gwen’s eyes land on a sticky note pinned to the bulletin on her dresser. _‘Finish mole-bio prep.’_ An hour ago feels too long ago. She sighs, knowing she needs to dig deeper.

“I didn’t bring you here because I want to be in any trouble, Parker.”

He stays silent, lets her continue. Can see how hard she’s reaching.

“But I think I know what it’s like to be on your own. I don’t believe in heroes, but a year ago I didn’t believe I was any different either. And now, I am.”

Except nothing’s changed yet. Peter Parker is in her room but nothing has actually changed. She’s still Gwen-the college student. Gwen-the orphan. Gwen-the wannabe drummer. Gwen-the future scientist who _knows_ the Accords are wrong, can feel it in her _bones_. Where’s she going to draw the line? When’s she going to step over it?

“I guess I just don’t see why there shouldn’t be anybody in your corner.”

They lock eyes. She wills Peter to understand. It’s a jumble of subconscious thoughts up there. Mostly feelings. But a restlessness too, one that started way before any old spider bite. A growing sense that the world left behind to people like them, people their age, would only get worse in the hands of megalomaniacs harnessing the insecurity they’ve had to face, ripping societies apart. Too much trauma. So little space.

Spider-Man needs to stay under-the-radar. At least until the rest of the Avengers return. Certainly until somebody gets the chance to draft something Constitutional in place of the Accords. Gwen wants to expose Ross, fix the cracks he’s formed in the wake of Sokovia, of Lagos, of Berlin (unreported), Harlem (redacted), Thanos (undermined). In so many unexplainable ways, she _needs_ this. 

When Peter speaks, she’s taken aback but how utterly sincere he sounds.

“For what it’s worth, I’m not sure why you wouldn’t believe in heroes.”

Gwen is resolute in _not smiling_ , but she’s touched all the same.

Deep breath. Focus. Form a plan. 

“I don’t use webs like you do. Too obvious. But I can fly in this suit. Totally silent. And I can turn invisible and exert bio-electrical pulses.”

Peter blinks, back in the game. The severity of his situation is suffocating.

“I use these little discs,” Gwen holds one up to the light, flips it in her fingers deftly, “to extend the range of my abilities. I haven’t practiced it yet, but I’m pretty sure I can swing my way around the city by channeling some sort of bio-electrical vortex between myself and the discs.”

Peter’s eyes grow wide.

“EM manipulation,” he whispers, stunned. “That’s amazing! How are you doing all this?”

Gwen shrugs and smirks. “I borrow ESU’s research facilities.”

Peter looks ridiculously impressed.

“Yeah, well, I’ve only got up to 50 feet so far in very untested conditions, so naïve optimism is still the name of the game around here.”

“What about everything else from the-uh,” he swallows, “from the spider bite?”

“Yes to the super healing, reflexes, sensory fucking overload, and electrical wall crawling.” 

He leaps from the bed.

“I can’t believe I’ve never thought of manipulating the static electricity before! I wonder if I’d be able to-”

Gwen waves his excitement away with a lazy hand. “I wouldn’t fret too much about it. Neither you nor Stark have a proper genetics background and I doubt you’d have been all about DNA testing before the leak.”

Peter frowns. Stops pacing.

“How do you know so much about the Avengers?”

Gwen purses her lips. “Would you believe if I said it was my dad’s job to know?” She drawls flatly.

He raises his eyebrows at her. She rolls her eyes.

“George Stacy. Y’know, the guy who directed the Battle of New York documentary?” 

She finds it amusing that Peter can form such a round ‘o’ with his tiny mouth.

“Didn’t he also do that movie based on the Mandarin? The one starring-”

“You mean the one where he pretends Iron Man alone was capable of stopping an organization when he didn’t know where the root of it began?” She interrupts unkindly. Peter trails off. Gwen scoffs.

“Anyway, he’s dead now.”

This night is just filled with tense silences.

Peter sits back down on the bed gently, his arms outstretched until he thinks better of it.

A beat.

“Michelle. Jones. Goes by MJ. She’s this girl I really like and I haven’t been able to see her since-” He stops and gulps painfully. “Ned Leeds. He’s my best friend. They both go to Midtown.” A huge breath in. “And my aunt May. Parker. She’s kind of- all I have left.”

He exhales, muscles sagging. Slouched in his hoodie like that, with only her night vision to go by, Gwen recognizes how tired he is. He has deep bruises under his eyes she didn’t give a second thought to before. A steadiness in hands so small, so needlessly burdened with the world.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what she thinks, does it? Rationalizations won’t change the truth. That Gwen Stacy was always part of this world, always cared too much about it with what little she’s had. Could see when it was going to shit before everyone else felt it in their own ashes. Who has feared and examined and prepared for the future every single waking second. At the end of the day, nothing will ever change Gwen Stacy and her right to live.

“Peter,” she calls. He looks up. “Seek that asylum. I’ll look after your family.”

His face straightens grimly, as does hers.

_Trust me, trust me, trust me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm no science bro. i'm just a kid and life is a nightmare


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: rape scene at the beginning, not very descriptive but it exists

Gwen is on her way to Queens when it happens. On the outskirts of Manhattan, a pair of hands caress a woman’s body in a dark alleyway behind a bar. The adjacent street is lit neon by its sign. Gwen’s in her suit, completely invisible, launching herself through the air, building by building, testing the strengths and limitations of her bio-electrical powers on the discs she crafted. So far, so good. Months of discipline later, she’s still pleasantly surprised by how _natural_ her new instincts feel, how quickly they come to her, like she’s always had them. Like the bite had only magnified sensations that she was always attuned to, gentle manipulations in the air she was previously convinced were imaginary. Five blocks away and she’s already heard the harsh whispers, pinpointed the exact location.

She lands on the side of the building across the bar. A man trying to rape a woman is nothing she hasn’t heard of before. His stature isn’t even all that larger than hers, but it’s enough. She’s swaying, flushed, her heartbeat beating out too staccato a rhythm. Gwen knows she’s been drugged. It’s an hour to midnight but this neighborhood is all cleaned out. It had been silent for Gwen on her way here – that’s why she’d picked this route and time of day. Nobody else would be around to witness this, nobody else could help this girl.

And yet, Gwen stays still. If she reveals herself, this whole mission would be over. Parker is safe in Wakanda by now and he trusts her to take care of his family. She can’t do that if anyone finds out about her powers. Rumors of another enhanced individual running around New York? This city houses enough vigilantes as it is.

 _Where are they now?_ A nasty voice in her head sneers before she can stop herself. Beck attacks London and what was left of the Avengers hadn’t even shown up then. This, this one horrific but isolated little incident, would be beneath a hero’s paygrade.

So she crouches and keeps watch. Minutes pass. Gwen doesn’t take her eyes off the two figures and their _furtive whispers, a belt unbuckling, desperate hands, breaths that feel like screams_ – Gwen chokes along as she watches. It’s dirty, it’s so dirty, why isn’t anyone else around in this godforsaken place-

Her hands fumble down the streamlined fabric of her suit. She never goes out with her cell phone. Her suit wasn’t made to go with anything, not if her aim was to be completely aerodynamic.

Gwen thinks she’s smart enough to understand that in these moments, on nights like these, she’s not Gwen at all but a nameless, faceless shadow. She has to fully commit to the part. Where _she_ exists, Gwen cannot. Two halves that _must_ be separated. If one life ever bleeds into the other, she’d be royally screwed. The world would be after her. Without anonymity, nothing would ever be the same. Just look at Parker. A name and a face and suddenly everyone can compromise him. Fans who don’t know any better. Criminals set on vengeance. 

No. Gwen has studied this for too long. The world doesn’t know what to do with power. It’s never about picking a side. Maybe that’s why she can’t name this other part of herself. Save the naming for the likes of Spider-Man, of Daredevil, of whichever other entities keep popping up. This sort of identity, this sort of life, is ill-suited for parameters. The moment she defines it, Gwen Stacy will be done. 

Instead, she stays still and watches. _Like keeping vigil_ , her mind spits viciously. _Useful fucking support._ Then suddenly, a shaft of light emerges from a backdoor and someone stumbles out.

“Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  
“Mind your own fucking business-”  
“Leave or I’m calling the cops!”

Gwen moves on before she can finish overhearing the scuffle. 

She checks up on May Parker first because she is Peter’s closest family. A quick peek through the window shows May downing a cup of coffee at the dining table, books and papers scattered around her. 

_“Publicity campaign, need to up awareness of Accords._  
_Ground-up PR blitz re: Blip events?_  
_Deep dive into Jameson fans. See pink”_

Gwen reads the scrawl in the nearest notebook and realizes that May’s _fighting_ for Spider-Man. A warmth blooms in her chest, suddenly and without warning. Then she observes the rapid texting May’s conducting on her phone. Addressed to Happy. Photo of Stark’s personal bodyguard.

He’s helping her find a place to move. Smart. Since Peter’s fight with the Vulture, gang members and other weapons manufacturers have been enquiring after Spider-Man’s identity. Gwen wonders if the people at Stark Industries know of Ross. They must. Stark had remained the UN’s primary Avengers liaison until Thanos, now preceded by Col. Rhodes. Pepper Potts must be in the know. It would benefit Gwen to collect this information on Ross herself. 

From May, she moves onto Ned Leeds, who appears as normal a teenager as one can be. And then finally to MJ, whose eyes remain on the same page of her book in the fifteen minutes Gwen takes to scope around. Every so often, they dart to the cell phone next to her. Just before Gwen leaves, MJ springs up to scribble something down furiously on a piece of scrap paper, fingers coiled tightly.

_“Wakandan immunity – exception to the Accords, if UN-governed why US citizenship?”_

Gwen smirks before she can help it. Never let it be said that the partners of supers aren’t just as in tune with the climate.

She settles on thinking through this her whole way home. Between herself and Parker’s family, the people at SI, it’s taking a whole goddamn village to make sure Spider-Man is safe, that Spider-Man has a place in this world. And it’s about time, too.

Then she passes by the bar, the alleyway, and chills run down her forearms. Because it’s so easy to think, in the wake of massively black-and-white incidents, that heroes are necessary. And maybe they are. Standing by compliantly, to be deployed only in an apocalypse, orders to be given by whoever thinks they would ever have the _foresight_ now that SHIELD is gone, Fury dead… 

But that’s not how _this_ world operates. Not always on contingency after contingency. Beliefs form and crumble under the weight of the everyday. Those with faith put it in the hands of heroes, pathetically ill-informed about what that could mean for them, about what form heroes can take, while the cynics call it another way to shift the blame. Neither of those will hold. What happens when the illusion gives out? What will happen to all the fear and spent faith and existential insecurity? Isn’t that what’s happening now? A universe lost and returned by a ragtag team now humbled beyond expectation, yet still infinitely more powerful than the average spectator. The chasm is growing wider and people are finally beginning to ask – _what for? What was it all for?_

When Gwen answers this question herself, she knows the truth. She’s no one’s hero.

\--

MJ: Where are you?  
_Sent 09/16/19 12:08PM_  
MJ: I know I figured things out, but I’m not always that in the loop you know  
_Sent 09/16/19 1:13PM_  
MJ: Are you coming to practice today?  
_Sent 09/20/19 2:34PM_  
MJ: We’re still saving a seat for you.  
_Sent 09/28/19 10:02AM_  
MJ: Hi, how was your day MJ? Great, thanks for asking Peter. Things have been peachy down here  
_Sent 09/30/19 6:45AM_  
MJ: The Hardy-Weinberg equation is used to calculate what in a population?  
_Sent 10/4/19 11:12PM_  
MJ: Genotype frequency  
_Sent 10/4/19 11:13PM_  
MJ: Great job, Peter.  
_Sent 10/4/19 11:13PM_  
MJ: During which stage of mitosis are sister chromatids separated?  
_Sent 10/4/19 11:55PM_  
MJ: Anaphase  
_Sent 10/4/19 11:55PM_  
MJ: Too slow, Parker.  
_Sent 10/4/19 11:55PM_  
MJ: I’m not pining, you know.  
_Sent 10/12/19 12:44PM_  
MJ: Which of the following most clearly distinguishes eukaryotic cells from prokaryotic cells?  
_Sent 10/22/19 1:16PM_  
MJ: Wrong again, nerd.  
_Sent 10/22/19 1:42PM_  
MJ: Wish us luck.  
_Sent 10/26/19 9:04AM_  
MJ: Serves me right to ask for that Parker luck, I suppose.  
_Sent 10/26/19 3:39PM_  
MJ: Peter, I really miss you.  
_Sent 10/27/19 2:02AM_  
_Seen 2:07AM_  
…  
MJ: Peter?  
_Sent 10/27/19 2:08AM_  
_Seen 2:08AM_  
MJ: To the person sneaking on his phone, this isn’t the 1970s anymore, sincerely FUCK YOU  
_Sent 10/27/19 2:13AM_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops in case you couldn't already tell this entire fanfic was borne first and foremost of my need to ramble about superheroism
> 
> hope you are enjoying it regardless if you get this far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who's reading this fic - thanks so much for supporting! I love how the comments are helping me question my outline and shape where this story could go :) 
> 
> (also, where is Spider-Man 3 in the phase 4 lineup??????????)

Bright lights sweep across the stage. A vacuum of roaring applause. Screeches from the monitors up front. Em Jay’s steady voice in her ear. Sweat drips onto the snare. It’s the first night she’s performing with the Mary Janes and Gwen has never felt more alive.

Somehow, keeping a rhythm allows her to focus solely on the music. Everything else blurs and takes a step back. She feels a little thrill in her chest every time her ears pick out the latest _‘whoop!’_ from an audience member and she grins wickedly. Adrenaline thrums through her hands, controlling her movements. She’s letting it all out on this poor, battered drum kit, their band name emblazoned on the front slowly peeling off. She hears Em Jay start shrieking _higher and higher_ , the song’s about to end, their very last set of the night, and she speeds up, laughter almost bubbling out of her. This is so fucking _fun_.

“Thank you everybody!” Em Jay pants into the microphone. “Go fuck each other tonight.”

All the lights turn down for a brief moment before house lights come up. Gwen grabs the bottle by her feet, crushing the plastic, and gulps the warm water down. Felicia unplugs her guitar from the amp and slings it loosely behind her while crushing Glory to her chest in one fluid movement. Em Jay’s already gone off to _have a talk_ with the sound technician who’d screwed up a couple minor times while mixing their sets. Gwen gives the two girls a hesitant smile before carefully packing up her cymbals.

“Finally popped your performance cherry, Stacy,” Felicia croons. She reaches out to muss up Gwen’s hair and smirks when Gwen bats her hand away.

“Surprised you held your own, Hardy.” Gwen had counted twenty beer cans in the shitty dressing room right before the set started. “You were a walking Bud Lite ad on your way out.”

Glory stifles a chortle. Felicia only rolls her eyes, her trusty Juul already between her lips. “Ride in the van tonight?”

Gwen turns to look at Em Jay, who’s gone from yelling at the sound guy to making out with him in under two minutes flat. She shrugs. “I think I’ll get my own ride, thanks.”

“Where’s Harry?” Glory asks, having followed Gwen’s sightline. Felicia scoffs. “He and Em Jay are taking a break.”

Except clearly they weren’t, as he suddenly appears to yank Em Jay off the audio console. Gwen can hardly stop watching the entertainment. “So what’s up with them?” She asks.

“Last I heard, she got jealous of him flirting with some sorority girl at yesterday’s party,” Glory says. “But I don’t know what’s going on right now.” 

Gwen snorts. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees an empty spot at the bar. First time all night. Her legs start taking her there before the words catch up.

“Y’all want anything?”

Glory shakes her head and gets back to packing up her bass amp. Felicia’s attention had flitted away long ago to one of Harry’s friends who’d wandered up onstage and was painfully trying to get her number after weeks of jerking off. 

Gwen slides into her spot at the bar and calls the bartender over for a White Russian. Marigold’s working tonight. Nice lady with the coolest sleeves and a sharp tongue. Didn’t question her fake ID the first time Gwen nervously handed it over, only acknowledging it with a sharp ‘ _tsk_ ’ and the nostalgic smile of a co-conspirator. Someone Gwen could imagine being companionable with if she’d let herself.

It’s no time at all before a dude with curly brown hair and a tight V-neck sidles up to her. 

“You’re a pretty good drummer for being a girl,” he flatters, voice smooth like honey. The corners of Gwen’s lips turn slightly upward. _This fucking opening line…_

“How long have you been playing with them?” He continues.

She shrugs. “First time at this club.”

He smiles and moves in closer. Thinks he has an in now that she’s responded. The urge to roll her eyes is overwhelming.

“I’m Taylor,” he says, rolling the consonants in his mouth. His hand glides up to take hers. Gwen puts a little more force into the handshake than he’s expecting, if the slight creases along his left eye are anything to go by.

“Cool. Don’t know if that name suits you,” she replies. It doesn’t because it isn’t his name. His real name’s Zachary Fields. 23-year-old, self-employed, flies back and forth between Manhattan and Silicon Valley. Bet he feels _super special_ that he founded a tech startup with no college degree.

Gwen’s eyes flit lazily between his face – his grin is way too off-putting – and the details that glare at her, from the ID sticking out of his pocket to the texts lighting up the Stark Phone in his hand. He flies back to San Francisco on a red-eye tomorrow night, according to his calendar, nondescript font on his always-on display. A class ring on his left hand, an insignia of a rich prep school here in the city. She resists a scoff. _Of course he’s one of those._ Custom cufflinks with the logo of his startup that she recognizes as a new app on offer – yet another one jumping on home kits for DNA testing.

She looks back up at him. He must think she’s checking him out. His right eyebrow quirks up. _So_ practiced. “Aren’t you gonna tell me your name?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She looks at Marigold. Damn all the other customers for taking away her attention. Gwen’s pretty sure she’s just about done with this conversation.

“That’s not really playing fair now, is it?” His eyes gleam. Gwen forces a polite smile on her face.

“Bold of you to assume I’m playing.”

He chuckles. Moves in a little closer. She can smell the cologne on him, the shampoo he showers with, can hear the extremely faint ticking of his expensive watch that he wouldn’t have bought if he’d known it ticks. Yes, she’s done with this fucking conversation.

“It’s rare to find a good drummer. I play a little myself. You seem like a pretty awesome person,” he offers. Gwen does scoff a little now. Like hell he plays. Just look at the baby smoothness of his hands. She hates that she noticed it.

“Thanks.”

She can almost hear all the tactics he’s running through in his mind. Like trying out different pieces of a puzzle. Take it out if it doesn’t fit.

“You know,” he leans his elbows against the bar. “You’re different from all the other girls I meet around here.”

 _Of course._ “How so?” At the back of her mind, she wonders why she’s still feeding him little by little. Why hasn’t she shut this down by now? 

He flashes a sharp smile. “There’s just something about you. I really like your type.”

“My _type_?”

His wrist flicks casually. “Gorgeous, smart, sense of rhythm, some mystery.” Gwen cringes internally. “Total package from the get-go.”

“I see.”

Finally, Marigold’s heading over with her drink. Gwen taps her finger impatiently.

“Maybe we could go for a walk, I’d like to get to know you-”

She grabs her glass from Marigold’s hand and pivots swiftly in one movement, an achingly familiar burn sliding down her throat even before she’s taken her first step out of this conversation. She hears Taylor-Zachary sputter slightly behind her, mid-sentence, as she walks away. She hears the harsh “Hey” that cuts off and morphs into a low whisper, “Be that way, _bitch_.” 

Gwen shakes her head, disappointed at how she handled the situation. What was she expecting to get out of that? An incoming text steals her attention.

“ _Hey Gwen doll_ ,” it reads. A chill starts at the base of her stomach. “ _Uncle Miles here. Dinner this weekend?_ ”

A picture of her favorite beef stroganoff recipe follows.

Great. Something else Gwen doesn’t know how to say no to. Can’t say no to.

She shoves her phone in her pocket. She’ll put this off as long as she can.

To avoid being hassled again, she hikes up the stairs to the rooftop, drink in hand. She knows that if she’s discreet about it, club management won’t hassle her. She’s been a regular since she moved nearby. Has helped out with band setup before ever meeting The Mary Janes, has broken up a couple of fights at the bar, walked some of the bartenders home after hours.

She sips from her glass slowly, the world quieting down around her. Alcohol can’t touch her now but she’s glad for the taste all the same. Helps her out when she starts feeling like there’s nothing to go back to.

She knows there isn’t. Not creepy Uncle Miles who touched her wrong that one time and still insists on introducing himself as her “Uncle Miles” every time, whose presence caused such anxiety the weeks she stayed with him after her parents died that all she could do was prepare, prepare, prepare to ace ESU’s entrance exam, to get emancipated, to move out. 

Her parents died in a plane crash, along with a hundred others, when the Blip dusted their two pilots and half the people at the command center. In the weeks after, before she knew for sure that the dusting had occurred randomly, Gwen couldn’t stop spiraling about how _it could’ve been her, why wasn’t it, why was she saved?_

It’s never mattered that she’s aware of her genius-level IQ. Her dad used to brag about it to his coworkers all the time. _How did dumb old me get so lucky, huh?_ Like it mattered. It was always just a number. God, she misses her parents every day. She misses the California heat. The sunsets of her childhood are imprinted on her eyeballs every time she sees the skyline. She’s grown to love New York but it’s not _her_ city, not the way it’s home for Spider-Man. It’ll always be witness to her loss.

The glass is drained empty and Gwen’s more lucid than ever. It’ll be a life of shitty studio apartments and keeping people away. She can never stop keeping people away now that she’s not just Gwen anymore. There’ll forever be something dark and restless beneath her skin, fueling her investigation into Oscorp’s research, endlessly driving her to the lab in fear of her mutation, _needing_ to understand what’s happened to her. How did Peter ever live with this? When will he be pardoned? When will any of them? 

Those are the daydreams she’s most afraid of – she can’t control it, but her thoughts occasionally slide to idyll visions of a future where she’s found refuge in people like her. Built a new family up, filled with superhumans who understand in a world that trusts them. It’s a hope that refuses to go away, even when she knows it’ll never happen. How could it? This universe has already been torn apart once. There won’t be a force strong enough to stop it from cracking further. The seams are showing, she _knows_ it. And people are so willing to tear themselves in half. It’s just a fact. Her intelligence is a curse. It won’t fix anything. _She knows this._

With a press of her lips, withholding a useless scream, she heads back downstairs. Hauls her things back to her apartment. Settles in under the covers alone. Closes her eyes and wills her body to sleep. _She needs to rest._ She hopes she dreams of sweet-smelling hands cradling her face, a familiar smile crinkling at the eyes…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *extreme creative license* MCU version of gwen stacy angsts


	5. NOT A NEW CHAPTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I know I haven't posted in a while. I still have the final bit of ACTUAL chapter 5 to finish, but it's been a rough time. Warning that this chapter is NOT a real update. I'm sorry it's taking so long. I read a lot on here about how authors have tough times and stop updating, and life has been discouraging lately. I wrote a little something and I wanted to put it up here so we could talk about it and have that experience as a reference. I'll really honesly try to get back to chapter 5 soon because I did have an outline for this story and I did have a plan, in case anyone's still following.

It's been three weeks and it isn't going away.

She buys herself a sugary donut on the way to work and it feels heavy in her stomach. She stares at a small, manageable pile of emails and can't muster a convincing reason to lift her fingers. The whole time, she remembers the few mantras she drilled in her mind the last time she felt happy - one, it'll pass; two, history is on her side; and three, find just one moment in the day when life feels okay.

She knows she can take time out for herself. Be gentle, take care of your health. But the debts keep racking up and after three weeks they don't feel as surmountable anymore. What kind of hole is she digging for her future self? She has people who care about her. Why doesn't she even want to get out of bed?

When she was fifteen, she was diagnosed with a mild anxiety disorder and it stresses her out thinking about it. At the time, she was feeling what she remembers to be the lowest period in her life. She felt almost constantly suicidal, she couldn't sleep most nights, and she didn't understand why. People either couldn't understand or wouldn't, but she finally convinced her parents to bring her to a doctor after she turned sixteen. They had her fill out a bunch of forms. The problem was that she loved taking quizzes and analyzing herself. She'd already read up on depression and was worried she exhibited all the symptoms. Except it must not have been bad enough if she was self-reflexive about it. Plus she still went to school everyday, even though she would cut class and cry in random corners. They prescribed her anxiety medication that she never took because people were starting to talk about how she wanted attention. She was a teenager. It made her doubt herself, mostly because she knew in part that _was_ what she wanted. She thought the doctor might've diagnosed her with a condition because she'd already dragged her parents all the way there and was making a fuss about it. Regardless, she's never taken the diagnosis to be true or accurate at all.

She fills her days up by scheduling dance lessons and forces herself to go because she'd already pre-paid for them. She sits at work and hopes nobody notices that she hasn't showered in two, maybe three days because every time she gets home she's too tired to do anything but sleep. In fact, as of last week, the sleeping is now starting on the train home and she has to shake herself awake every few minutes, reminding herself that nobody else is responsible for making sure she gets home safe and that there is a reason she should care about that, even if she's too tired to remember it right now. The dishes pile up, she gives in to eating out and buying whatever she wants as she watches her expenses go up, she tries to talk about feeling so low, _so low_ , but never gets very far, afraid of bumming other people out.

She considers emailing her therapist again, who'd "graduated" her from her occupational therapy program only a few months before. She ends up sticking it out a little longer. She wonders if there's at all a masochistic element to these low periods that keeps her tied down. As it is, she finds it tough to breathe sometimes, with this weight always sitting in her chest, accompanied by an inexplicable urge to explain why it's there and an irrational need to justify why she isn't taking the proper steps to remove it.

It's not like she doesn't know them. Why is she simply staring at the ceiling when she could just sit up and meditate, or even lie down as she is and meditate? How has half an hour already passed? She could get things done tonight before bed, especially if she starts with an easy list. Why is it so goddamn difficult to even get up to use the bathroom?

It all comes to a head one day at work. She still gets through the day and she still turns her tasks in before she leaves. But she has to keep going outside to stop herself from sitting at her desk and crying, even when she doesn't know if any sound or tears will come out. She can tell her coworkers are starting to notice something's wrong. She asks for the utmost time what she's doing with her life and why she's here if she can't ever appreciate any of it. The little hope she'd been holding onto disappears and she knows that in the future, this feeling will never go away. It'll always be part of her, this ugly questioning of why she has to be alive, even when she's happy, even when she's physically with the people she loves, even when she can't remember how much these low periods utterly eviscerate her. She can't recall the last time she felt anything positive. It's all just been _so low, so low, so low._

Perhaps it's a happy dream she falls asleep to that night. She can't ever tell for sure what brings her out of her low periods, but when she wakes up the next morning, it's a little easier to get out of bed. She finishes answering her emails that day. The moment she walks through her bedroom door, she feels like she wants to shower and she does. She doesn't want to celebrate, knowing how precarious her position is. But over the next few days, she notices how things get better. When the wind blows through her hair, it's easy to smile. Her mind feels clearer at work and not only can she get more things done, she actually begins to care again about what she's doing. It's less of a struggle paying attention to people when they talk. Ideas flow through, she jots them down, and she finds purpose in the books she starts reading. Best of all, there are now moments in her day when she suddenly feels a rush of joy - from catching up with a friend, from seeing something funny - and she revels in this new feeling, knowing she can catalog it for the future when she'll inevitably have fewer of these moments. 

And one night, she feels motivated enough to write about her experience, hoping that the next time she has to remind herself of why it's worth it to keep going, it'll be an easier ask to open this letter and read it to herself, not as a way to motivate her into action, but simply a living proof that she's already done this many, many times before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It cycles every couple weeks. The cycle in itself is a tiring trap I'm trying to rise above. Whoever has reached this point in the page, I send you the most well of wishes.


End file.
